


Manual Labor

by Bagheera



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: First Time, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Stand Alone, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 10:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bagheera/pseuds/Bagheera
Summary: Hancock watches as Nate tends to a field of melons, sweating from all the hard work in the sun. A discussion about the merits of manual labor ensues.





	Manual Labor

**Author's Note:**

> This is not part of the same universe as "Pledge of Allegiance", if you've read that - in fact, it's an old snippet from 2016 that I dug out because I got nostalgic for the old kinkmeme. It's so old in fact that I had to squint at the first few paragraphs real hard, wondering "Did I really write this?" but yeah, I did. I wish we still had an active kinkmeme, guys! I made my first forays into this fandom there, posted two works anonymously and then it took me three years to actually start writing a proper story. This is a little short, and just a PWP, but I still like it enough to brush off the dust and post it here.

“There’s something to be said for life in the boondocks,” Hancock says.

He’s sitting on the porch with Mama Murphy. She doesn’t reply because she dosed off long ago, happily floating on the Hancock special. Hancock has his hat tipped low, shading his face as he watches the vault dweller burn his perfect, smooth skin while toiling and sweating over a patch of melons. Nate has taken off his shirt, hair tied back with a strip of cloth. The flies buzzing around his glistening arms are normal-sized, and this is a day off from fighting, but Nate’s definition of day off sure as hell isn’t Hancock’s. 

It’s a unique sort of luxury, watching another man work. It makes Hancock feel lazy and smug as a cat on a hot roof, basking in the heat. 

“Says the only man in this settlement who hasn’t got grime under his fingernails,” Nate replies, so long after Hancock’s comment that he was sure Nate didn’t catch it. 

Hancock wiggles his fingers at him. “No fingernails. Holding on to them is such a bother.” 

Nate chuckles. It never ceases to amaze Hancock how this man can keep a straight face at things like this, and people who were born and raised in the Commonwealth still scream at the sight of him. He rolls his shoulders, sinking deeper into his chair. 

“’sides, I ain’t supposed to operate heavy machinery.”

“A rake’s not exactly heavy machinery,” Nate says, but in good humor.

Hancock unsprawls a little, to show that he cares. He’s never been any use at construction work or farming, but if Nate made a serious request, he’d pitch in. He could carry some water up from the stream, maybe, water the plants and give his friend a little cool-down, wash the sweat and grime right off those broad shoulders… 

Yeah, he’d pitch in if Nate wants him to. “I respect your work, brother, I really do.”

“Respect my work, huh?” Nate stops, leaning against his rake to look up at Hancock. His eyes crinkle at the edges, showing his age, but his eyes and smile aren’t 200 years old.

Hancock is easy, he’ll admit that, but that smile… he’d face a whole lot of sunshine and fresh air just to get his daily fix of that, is how good it is. And Nate knows what that smile can do, Hancock has no doubts about that.

“It’s a joy to see you working with your hands,” he practically purrs. “So much talent. Locks, crops, triggers, you’re a regular wizard with those fingers.”

A spot of mirth enters Nate’s smile. “If I didn’t know you so well, Hancock, I’d say you almost look hungry. Should I be worried you’re showing so much appreciation for my hands?”

Hancock has always enjoyed ghoul jokes. It’s just that Nate is the only human who gets to make them without finding themselves intimately acquainted with a combat knife. He chuckles as he lets himself fall back into his chair. “Nah, you’re good. They way those melons are growing, your fingers are safe. Your toes, now that’s another story… I know for a fact a man don’t need all of them.”

Perhaps Nate wanted to be distracted from his work, because doesn’t let it go that easily. “If you’re so interested, Hancock, maybe you should let me teach you a few things about manual labor.”

You might think that it’s an innocent suggestion, coming from Nate, with an open, wholesome smile like that, but Hancock can spot innuendos from a mile away. “I’m always willing to learn,” he retorts.

Nate stops, and looks at him for a long moment, fingers flexing on the rake. Then he glances at Mama Murphy. 

“Later,” he says, in a tone so firm it feels like he’s got his hands already on Hancock. There’s no mistaking what he’s promising. 

Hancock’s eyes widen, and he breathes in sharply, but Nate goes back to tending his melons as if nothing happened. After a moment, Hancock licks his teeth and sits back. He’s the coolest ghoul in the Commonwealth, if MacCready is to be believed (and he’s damn well right about that), so he can keep it together, even if that just happened – if Nate just made a pass at him.

The next two hours move as slowly as jet, and ten times as sweetly. Nate works hard: loosening the soil, making neat little rows to plant the melon seeds in, watering them, then moving on to the next patch of ground. He bends down to pull out weeds, comes up again with a lovely little grunt and rubs the small of his back, and Hancock imagines him making that sound different circumstances. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, leaving a trace of grime, and Hancock imagines the taste of his skin, salt and soil and goodness. Hancock can’t remember when he last desired anything so much and had to wait to get it. Being the mayor of Goodneighbor has made him pampered and spoiled. Travelling with Nate was supposed to remedy that, but look how well that turned out. (No, just kidding, it was the best decision in his life.) When the need to scratch that itch becomes too bad, he shifts in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs, and thinks longingly about popping some mentats to help him focus, to fix this moment in his memory, but he doesn’t. He lets his own hands rest, lets the afternoon heat envelop him, watches and wants until everything is a haze.

Once or twice he thinks about getting up and going somewhere quiet to get his fix sooner. What if Nate was just joking? There’s been something between them, that’s true, but Hancock isn’t sure it’s mutual. He’s seen Nate flirt with a lot of people – hell, Nate charmed his way into the Brotherhood, into Vault 81, into every vacuum sealed bunch of freaks the Commonwealth has to offer. He wormed his way under Nick Valentine’s tough synth skin and he’s got that Paladin blushing on a regular basis, but Hancock isn’t some overgrown virgin in a tin can. He knows that style of leadership inside out, because it’s not too different from what he does. His own is a little more violent, a little less predictable, all the better to keep them on their toes, but that’s because he hasn’t got a mug like one of them people in a pre-War fashion magazine, and a body straight from a different kind of mag.

People follow you because you give them what they want, but never all of it. Keep them wanting, just a little. It doesn’t make Nate a tease, it just makes him a good leader.

Even Hancock has followed him willingly, after all. 

But in the end, Hancock doesn’t leave because there might be no follow-up to the flirting. If it’s torture, it’s still sweet. It’ll be worth it, even if it ends in disappointment. All highs do, and still the addicts chase them.

At last Nate puts down his tools. He goes to the water pump near the melon patch and fills a bucket. He cups the water in his hands, rubs them against each other, scrubs his arms and slaps another handful onto his face. When he looks up at Hancock, it would probably be polite to pretend that he hasn’t been watching Nate like a mutt eyeing a raw steak, but polite company and Hancock have never really seen eye to eye.  
Nate is the one who looks down and away, but only to unbutton his pants. His hands are steady, no trace of nerves as he strips and bares his thighs and calves, long and lean and looking rock solid, a pair of underpants clinging to his ass. He lifts the bucket over his head and empties it, letting the water slosh down his body. 

“Damn,” Hancock whispers, because he’s suddenly pretty sure this is actually the trip of a lifetime. “I want a state funeral,” he declares, “free drinks for everyone.”

“So you’re still awake,” Nate says, shaking his wet hair like Dogmeat when the mutt climbs out of a river. “I was wondering.”

“So was I,” Hancock says.

“Come on then,” Nate tells him and heads inside. Hancock gets up, a little unsteady on his feet, and follows him like a sleepwalker into the house. The shacks they’ve built here in Sanctuary aren’t like the old brick houses in Goodneighbour, there’s really no such thing as privacy, but Nate closes the door behind them and Hancock goes a little weak in the knees with need. This is either really happening, or so good a hallucination that it doesn’t make a difference.

Nate lights the oil lamp on the table. It fills the wooden shack with a warm orange glow, heavy with shadows at the edges, outlining their faces in sharp relief.

“Thought you’d prefer it in the dark,” Hancock says. 

It’s not something that would bother him, really, or at least he’d understand it, but Nate puts a hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm through the old coat, and says, “And I thought you liked watching me work.”

Ghouls see just fine in the dark, but Hancock chooses not to point that out. “Damn right I do,” he rasps.

Nate’s hand leaves his shoulder, sliding down to the flag Hancock wears around his hips, and undoes the knot. Ghouls don’t really sweat, and these old threads don’t take all that kindly to frequent washing, so Hancock doesn’t usually bother to take them off except when being naked is the point. He’s been almost celibate while travelling with the vault dweller, so it’s been a while and the knot in the flag has grown tight. Nate has to exert quite a bit off force, tugging at it so roughly he almost jerks Hancock off his feet, and being manhandled like this is the fucking best. 

Once he’s got it off Hancock, he carefully drapes it over the back of a chair. His fingers linger on the red, white and blue threads for moment, a small frown knitting his brows, then he plucks at the frilled collar of Hancock’s shirt.

“We’ll give those a good scrubbing tomorrow.”

Nate washes his clothes more frequently than anyone Hancock knows. He puts them out to dry on a line strung up on the balcony on the upper floor of the shack, so the inhabitants of Sanctuary and any visiting traders regularly get treated to the sight of his underwear blowing in the wind. Now there’s an image in Hancock’s head, and it leaves him with a different sort of want: his famous red coat on that line, bright as the Vault-Tec blues. People know that coat from here to Boston Harbor. Oh, he’s got it bad if that’s the sort of thing he craves. This is going to be a hell of a crash when he comes down, but that’s never kept him from doing anything.

“Hancock,” Nate says, sounding amused. He probably thinks Hancock is too high to focus. 

“Sure, anything. You just say the word, brother,” Hancock murmurs.

Nate doesn’t say anything, just pulls Hancock down onto the bed with him, so they’re sitting back to front, Hancock’s shoulders resting against Nate’s chest, Nate’s bare arms around his waist, his hands working open the antique buttons of Hancock’s shirt.

His knuckles brush against Hancock’s ravaged skin, the first deliberate contact they’ve had. Nate’s fingers are not as rough as they should be, and they’re curious, unafraid, taking stock of the welts and scars, the ribs that can easily be counted, the jutting hipbones, the hard line of his cock. Nate breathes a kiss against his left ear. It’s a touch that makes Hancock want to stretch and purr, and so he does, pressing back against Nate’s body. The movement dislodges his hat, which rolls down the bed and comes to rest by the straw pillow. Nate holds him tighter at that, one arm around Hancock’s chest, so Hancock strains against his hold just to feel how firm it is. With the other hand, Nate works open Hancock’s pants. He clucks his tongue when he finds no underwear, but the way he grips Hancock’s dick isn’t prudish at all. 

“And here I wanted to teach you the virtues of hard labor,” he says, palming it gently, rubbing the calloused pad of his thumb over the scarred head. “But it seems it’s not gonna take much of that.”

Hancock can’t take his eyes off the sight of Nate’s hand on his dick, but he manages to reply almost as calmly as Nate. “You think hard labor had nothing to do with that? Because the way I see it, you been working on this all afternoon.”

“I haven’t done this in a while,” Nate admits. His grip firms, but doesn’t speed up. “When we first met, you scared the shit out of me.” There, finally, some relief: he gives Hancock’s cock a few quick, hard strokes, not a trace of fear in his touch now. “But I also couldn’t stop wondering if I still knew how to do this. What you’d look like if I got my hands on you.”

It calls for a cheeky reply, but Hancock hasn’t got one, at least not words – he’s making plenty of noises, loud enough that half of Sanctuary must think Nate is fucking him. Which he will, if the bulge in his jeans is any indication. It feels big, and Hancock wants it, wants it fucking his throat, wants to ride it, wants it so deep inside him that he can’t breathe, and he’s practically coming already when the rhythm of Nate’s strokes grows abruptly slow and tantalizing. His touches turn gentle, fingers lose around Hancock’s dick, so light he twitches and gasps at every brush of skin.

He’s right on the edge, and Nate is just keeping him there, effortlessly, barely even flicking his wrist, playing with him, as if he’s got all the time in the world. Hancock would love nothing better than to give up, to let Nate take him apart piece by piece while he just hangs on, but he’s got a reputation, and his pride demands that he doesn’t give in quite that easily, even if Nate is inhumanly good at everything he touches –

Hancock writhes, one long, sinuous movement back against Nate, and reaches up, cupping the back of Nate’s head, holding on to him for support as he gives new meaning to the word wanton, rubbing himself against Nate, grinding down on his cock, offering himself up. Nate holds out for a moment, growing all still and stiff, but then the hand he has pressed flat against Hancock’s chest flexes, and his nails curl against Hancock’s skin, and his other hand stops teasing, giving Hancock a firm, tight fist to fuck, which he does, just a few glorious thrusts until he collapses, spilling messily into the cradle of Nate’s fingers.

He needs a moment to remember how to breathe. Nate holds still while Hancock comes down, only tiny little rocking motions of his hips reminding him that he’s still waiting to get off. The idea of letting himself be manhandled into whatever position Nate wants and getting fucked through the aftershocks is pretty attractive, but first there’s something Hancock needs to do.

“Let’s keep those magic fingers nice and clean,” he says, and pulls Nate’s hand from his cock to his lips. In the lamp light there’s an iridescent sheen to his come, like an oil spill. Hancock licks Nate’s palm clean with a broad swipe of his tongue. He tastes himself, and underneath it salt and soil, just like he thought. All the good things in the world. He licks Nate’s fingers, one by one, tongue darting between them, finding the soft skin there. Finally, when all he tastes is Nate, he kisses the knuckles, as gently as he can with his rough lips.

“You’ve broken me,” Hancock sighs. “Promised myself I’d never do a day of honest work in my life, but you’ve convinced me otherwise.”

“We’ll put that to the test,” Nate says. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll put you to work. But now…”

*

Hancock was never a morning person, but if he does have to rise with the Brahmins, well-fucked is the way to go. He doesn’t do breakfast either, but he’s always willing to try out new things. He watches Nate by the stove, whistling as he flips something in the frying pan, a golden smell filling the shack. The old Hancock would tell him to keep it down, would grope for a bottle of vodka or some other hair of the dog, and once he got his brain back into working order, he’d try and think of an excuse to get out of the work he promised to do, find a reason to leave all this behind…

Hancock gets up. Surprisingly, his head isn’t killing him. He remembers he stayed clean last night when he sees the open door, Mama Murphy still dozing in her chair, Dogmeat keeping watch with his tongue lolling. Other people are already up and about. Hancock stops for a moment, wondering if he ought to care whether they see him like this, naked, undone, without his hat and his coat. He decides that he doesn’t.

“So,” he says, heart beating in his throat as he goes up on his toes to kiss the back of Nate’s head. “I was thinking, I’d like to learn how to build things. Maybe I could start on the new fence, work my way up to a proper shack…”


End file.
